


In Want of An Heir

by Nehszriah



Series: The March of Kasterborous and Gallifrey [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Arranged Marriage AU, F/M, Fantasy AU, kind of a s8 parallel, nobility au, the AU where Twelve grows Richelieu's facial hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 07:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aging Marquis of Kasterborous and Gallifrey takes a second wife with a clever plan: in need of an heir, he plans to make his new Marchioness into his successor. What he doesn’t know is that even the cleverest plans don’t always run smoothly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Want of An Heir

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted back in December 2014 over on both my tumblr and ff.net accounts under three parts. It's one of my favorites, hence why it is the first of my things I'm transferring over.

It was punishment, they said, for loving beneath her station.

Not that anyone could have blamed her—no, it was exactly the opposite. The soldier who had courted her was very handsome and attentive, making it so that she was showered in affection no matter the time of day. Rumor had it that they were planning to wed in secret, left-handed and against all others' wishes. Her father caught wind of this and, although it pained him to upset his only child, pulled strings to have the young soldier's post reassigned and quickly arranged a match for his daughter to quiet the remaining whispers about her character at court.

At least, she could say, that much of the gossip about her was true. She was stubborn and headstrong, refusing to be caged. Any marriage made for her was much later than most—she wanted love in her match, leading her to spurn even a duke's advances in years past. She read often and voiced opinions. Truly, she was the son her father never had, that her mother died too early to bear. Instead, to keep her name clear of scandal, she was wedded off to a man long-widowed and too grey-haired and stone-faced to be anything but cruel, she believed, as she first gazed upon him during the ceremony. It was a husband too good for her, it was then whispered, with a title too high and lands too great, settling because he was in want of an heir. She almost believed it herself, until night fell and the pair were shoved into a bedchamber.

"Give me your hand," he had ordered, holding out his own towards his bride of a few hours. Cautiously, she put her hand in his and watched as he took the ceremonial knife from his belt. He carefully made a small slit in her palm, along a crease so as to hide the wound, and watched as a tiny pool of red gathered. Sheathing the knife, he threw back the bedding and gestured at the mattress before beginning to undress. "They will expect you to have shed your maidenhood, and that most often means bleeding. Put a little where you're going to lie—it doesn't matter to me if you're maiden or not, and I don't intend on finding that out any time soon."

She stared at her palm, suspicious. "Isn't this… a lot of blood?"

"It is a lot of blood, yes, but the skeptical need lots of convincing, and there are many people skeptical about this wedding. This blood will go a long way for both of us."

The bride blinked at him curiously before doing as instructed, choosing a spot on the mattress sufficient to fool anyone. She turned to ask her husband something, immediately forgetting as she saw him stark-naked save for a pendant on his neck and the new ring on his finger. He took her bleeding hand in his and squeezed gently, gathering enough fresh blood to run down his length to give the vague suggestion he caused the bleeding mid-consummation. "In case we're walked in on in the morning," he explained. He then rumpled his hair and laid down on the bloodless side of the bed, going to sleep without another word.

' _That is… **odd**_ ,' she thought as she sucked her wound clean before undressing herself. She laid down in the bed and covered her naked body with the blanket—maybe a political marriage was going to be just that… one in name-only. He would eventually die and she inherit lands and titles and be able to have her choice of a second husband. It would be like the stories of women of old, who wed their way to wealth and power. She stared at the small scab forming on her palm and let herself drift to sleep.

* * *

Morning came and the couple was awoken by the shuffling of servants and a king who was far from shy. He talked to the groom as he dressed, back to the bride out of respect to her, mentioning all sorts of things at random. It was _war_ this and _enemy_ that and military terms she had never heard her father mention on account of being an internal politician. They were curious words, but not ones that confused her, and she decided that there was going to be plenty to discuss on the way to her new home.

' _New home_ ,' she frowned, realizing the finality of her situation. Once fully dressed the couple followed the king and were presented to court as the Marquis and Marchioness of Gallifrey, as the king saw the wedding bed and declared the marriage complete. Not wanting to argue with the land's highest authority, the members of the court clapped and congratulated and gave well-wishes for the union behind false smiles and niceties. By midday all final words were said and the newly-made Marchioness bid a tearful farewell to her well-meaning father before climbing into a carriage and beginning the week-long trip to her new home.

The Marquis was silent, staring out the window at the countryside. The only words he spoke to her were right before they had stopped for dinner.

"How is your hand?" he asked suddenly, surprising his fellow passenger. "I know you said your skin was cracking in the dry weather."

"Oh…? Uh, it's fine. Thank you, milord." He must have thought others could overhear, thus disguising the real reason as to why there was a line of red along her palm.

"Don't give me that," he grunted. "We're married now—I am Johan and you are Clara and we don't have to adhere to liege lords and fair ladies amongst ourselves. I don't care what you've been taught… it's different in Gallifrey."

"Is it?"

"As long as I rule there, yes." He looked back out the window and exhaled sharply, ending the conversation.

* * *

It was the fourth day of the journey before he said anything else.

"I travel a lot," he mentioned.

"How much is a lot?"

"I'm sometimes gone for weeks at a time; my wife took care of things at home before, and her mother afterwards, and now it's your turn."

"What do you do that keeps you away for so long?" she asked. It was a legitimate question, as she did not personally know his duties.

"The Dalek Empire to the east, and the Cybera Kingdom to the north, for starters," he frowned. "You're from the south, where the only problems come via ships and a lack of rain. Keeping track of what goes on along the borders is rough work, and sometimes I have to stay out longer than expected. It has made me a well-known ruler and commander, but a distant husband."

"What does that make me?" She pursed her lips and frowned as she considered the options. "A youthful prize to rule in your stead? Or am I a means for you to produce an heir?"

A flicker of something crept across his face—something almost akin to a smile—fading just as quickly as it came. " _You_ are my heir," he said, watching her eyebrows quirk in surprise. "I talked to your father before the wedding and he was very concerned that you and your children would no longer be able to inherit his title and wealth. Something tells me there is something of a succession crisis in Blackpoole, now that you have solved Kasterborous's, but you will never be in need or want of anything as long as you're married to me and that was what mattered to your father most."

"What if what I want is a husband?" she asked. He looked out the window and leaned his fist into his face, propping himself up by the elbow as she talked. "You married me without meeting me even once—how do you know that what I want out of life isn't a marriage made of love?"

"That… I don't know if I can give."

"Then I'm to sit at home a kept woman and run your house alone with no comfort at the end of the night?"

"No… you're allowed to have a paramour, or a string of them I suppose," he said, keeping his gaze out the carriage window. "If you need someone else in your bed, then that's your business. The only thing I ask is that I know who it is you keep around. Any child you bear is going to be considered mine, and I will raise and present to court as mine without fuss, though it will be nice to know whose son is going to inherit my lands."

"Is… is it because _you_ have a paramour?" she wondered. He snorted and shook his head.

"No," he replied simply. With that the conversation ended and the ride back to Gallifrey became a wordless one.

* * *

The March of Kasterborous was a vast, curious expanse of land, the new marchioness discovered. She had grown up knowing it as a splotch on the map towards the northern and eastern borders, and now that she was married to its ruler she wanted to travel throughout the entire thing. It was larger than the map-splotches led on and held a great many hills and low mountains and valleys and glens worth exploring. The capital, Gallifrey, was no different, for just past the city gate a whole bustling city opened up where there should have not been room. In the dead center of Gallifrey a castle rose up and towards the clouds, looking as if it had many halls and towers worth investigating within its walls made of blue-tinged bedrock. It was grand and magnificent even in the waning evening twilight.

"The sky is red," she gasped, noticing the odd hue the above sky was taking on. She had seen painted pinks and oranges and purples streak across clouds, but never the sky itself stain in anything other than blues and blacks so far away from the sun.

"It's the atmosphere here; this far north the sky takes on a reddish color as the sun sets," the Marquis explained. "During the day the sky is as blue as the southern lands, but the night is red. It makes for a sight during the snows."

Now _that_ was something. She wanted to ask all about it, what was in the atmosphere that made it do that, but before she could turn around he was gone. A maid whisked her off to bathe and change and sit for dinner, which she ate alone. Her chambers were attached to his by a door, which she peeked through before turning in for the night—empty. She crawled into her bed and went to sleep.

An uneasy night passed and just as she felt as if her eyes had barely closed she opened them to find the sun streaming in through her window and her husband sitting on the edge of her bed with his back to her. He was fully dressed, with spectacles on as he thumbed through one of the books she had unpacked from her trunk the night before.

"You read this stuff?" he asked, looking over the rims of his eyeglasses.

"Yes…?" She pulled the blanket up to her chin, confused at his morning appearance.

"Well, that's likely going to change," he said, closing the book with a flourish. He placed the novel up on the shelf it came from and turned back to his wife. "Hurry up and get ready—I leave for the border in two days and we've got plenty to go over. Did you run your father's household for him?"

"Uh, no… that was his wife, Linda. She wasn't at the wedding because she's not exactly fond of me…"

"That explains your lack of visible leadership skills and your penchant for lurid escapism. Breakfast is in the dining room—dress, eat, and meet me in my study within the hour. Have a servant bring you there if you can't find the way." With that he left, pocketing his spectacles and leaving his wife of barely a week sputtering in shock. Did he possess _any_ tact? It was a good thing that sharing a bed was only necessary for sleeping on the road, or else she would be tolerating none of this.

Forty-seven minutes later, the Marchioness Gallifrey strode into her husband's study with her head high and shoulders back. He glanced up at her momentarily, only to look back down at the paper in his hands.

"Come and sit; tell me what you think," he said. She approached the table and saw a multitude of papers and books scattered across the lacquered cherry-wood surface. Sitting down, she leaned over and skimmed the papers' contents.

"That's just the finances, isn't it?"

"Yes, but of what sort?"

"Well, that's all military right there," she said, gesturing to one portion of the list, "and that's all concerning the running of the march. Where are the personal expenditures?"

He looked at her, eyebrows raised. "Pardon?"

"You, now you and me, this castle, our food and clothes and servants… unless that's all lumped in under some code name I've no idea where it is."

"You've been here all of two minutes—how can you tell there's nothing in here about the castle?"

"I looked at the papers; it's not that difficult." She plucked a sheet from the table and leaned back in her chair, mulling the contents over. "This is the closest thing I can see to a personal bill, and it involves hosting the Earl of Adipose on a diplomatic visit."

"How can you say that?"

"With you being as skinny as you are, there's no way you can rack up this large an amount in food alone. Ugh… that man is _atrocious_."

The Marquis made a noise that was nearly distinguishable as a laugh. "Perfect."

"What…?" Now it was her turn to be confused.

"You said you never ran a household before, yet you seem to know exactly what these papers are about," he grinned, flashing a sliver of teeth. "Pretty young things with spread legs and wide hips are good enough for some, but I'd rather know I have a brain at my side."

"Thank you…?" she said, blinking apprehensively. "What's that supposed to mean? That you think I'm smart?"

"I _know_ you're smart—I don't want just anyone running my house and ruling Kasterborous while I'm away. If you take such little time gleaning information like that, then I have no further doubts about my choice."

She tilted her head. "You chose a wife by taking a gamble on my brains?"

"I took a gamble on finding my _successor_ and so far everything's turning up in my favor. Each time I head to the border my life is on the line, and to not have a Doctor in Gallifrey would be the first step towards the entire kingdom's doom."

"Doctor…? We're not doctors…"

"It's a local term, from before the lands were annexed," he explained, waving a hand around idly. "Back before then, those with the most authority were the physicians and their assistants. It wasn't because they held armies and levied taxes, but because they were wise and could take away others' pain. People listened to them and took their advice seriously, and eventually the title became synonymous with the rightful rule. I am the Doctor, and you are my Companion. Eventually you will become the Doctor, and by then hopefully you will have chosen someone to be your Companion, in whatever capacity that might be."

"You mean… you married me because you couldn't adopt me?"

He scowled in disgust, scoffing at the very idea. "People don't adopt their equals, not unless they have larger and darker issues at play. You _will_ succeed me, and you _will_ be brilliant. I can see you now, rising up from my ashes to squash the Daleki troops all fire and vengeance." He reached towards her and pushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "We'd need bigger coins though."

"Bigger coins…?"

"You could post a sign on that face of yours and still have room left over," he said. Scrunching her nose, she smacked his hand away and frowned.

"You could stand to learn some manners." He laughed at that, unguarded and genuine, and continued the management lesson.

* * *

He was gone for a month. Daleki forces had infiltrated the border and were attempting the takeover of a village, which of course had to be stopped immediately. It took longer than expected, but he still returned in the end.

Upon his arrival home, the Marquis asked his wife how things went in his absence.

"The castle still stands and the people have yet to rebel—I think it is a good omen."

"Good." He took another bite of the chicken on his plate. "We might make a Doctor out of you yet."

* * *

Her first paramour was a lad of local stock, a merchant's nephew who called her Doctor and doted on her almost like her soldiering suitor had. Private and attentive and possessing a boyish charm she seemed to love; he was young though, and this made him someone whom she eventually had to turn away before he could convince himself she carried feelings for him.

"He was too vivid a memory for me, and it would not be fair to him or men past," she explained to her husband at dinner one night. They were eating in his study, taking a short break from a lesson in military strategy, making it so that no one else was around to hear. "He did nothing wrong—he was just too… he wasn't the right one. I need to be careful about who I choose."

"You'll find someone. Hey, if push comes to shove you can adopt him."

She glared across the table, far from impressed with his jest. "I too want an equal, I hope you know."

"Wouldn't expect anything less, my dear."

* * *

The first snow fell the night before her birthday, coating the ground in a thin crust of white that vanished by noon. Before that, however…

"Clara, wake up," he said, shaking her shoulder to gently rouse her. She opened one eye in an angry slit, tempted to duck beneath her blanket.

"This better be good."

"It is." He smiled and pointed towards her window. Reluctantly, she rolled out of bed and allowed her husband to guide her towards the window. She opened her eyes wider and gasped.

The sky was a deep red-violet, the sort she had become used to if she was awake at the break of dawn, but the ground below was crisp and white, blending in with the pale trees grown special in the gardens since the founding of the marquisate and very few other places in the kingdom. The sun had not quite risen, leaving a bright smear of ruby on the horizon.

"Come with me," he said, holding out his hand. She took it and allowed him to lead her out from her bedchamber and through the halls of the castle, eventually arriving in the gardens in nothing but their nightdresses. The first rays of daylight spilled over the wall and filtered through the trees, making the wet leaves nearly shimmer as if made of silver.

"It's beautiful," she gasped. Creeping up onto her toes, she touched a leaf off a bottom tree branch and giggled. Never before had she seen anything like it, even after a rainstorm. Sometimes it was silver wedged between green and blue, which was possible to see in a certain churchyard in the capital city, though this… red and violet and silver and white… no words she thought did her feelings justice.

None, however, until…

"Johan?"

"Yes?"

"It's cold; can we go inside now?"

He looked at her and his face went red; it had taken him this long to realize they were in their nightdresses and bare feet, probably looking very ridiculous. Quickly he ushered his wife back inside and put her back in her bedchamber to dress before going into his own. The Marquis looked at their shared door pensively, wondering how her day was going to feel now that she had such an interesting start.

On the other side of the door, the Marchioness felt that it was the best way to begin a birthday she had ever known.

* * *

"The Ninth Marquis, why was he not called 'Doctor'?" she asked. They were in their study, she curled up in the armchair with a large tome on Gallifreyan history and he at the table writing a letter.

"Hmm…?"

"Every other Marquis of Gallifrey has been referred to as 'the Doctor' in this book except him. Why is that?"

"Oh, that." He exhaled heavily and continued writing. "Kastaborous was overrun by the Dalek Empire in those days. The Ninth Marquis felt he had put the title to shame and refused to be called that, even after the fighting had died down and he abdicated the seat to his son. That's how I'm the Twelfth Doctor of Gallifrey, but the Thirteenth Marquis."

"That seems awful," she frowned. "He brought peace to the march and refortified the border… shouldn't he still be recognized?"

"That was not for us to decide," her husband replied. "All we can do now is make sure that we do not fall victim to the same pitfalls he did. My time as the Doctor, as well as yours, can still benefit from him."

She sighed sadly as she looked back in the book at the etchings, one young and dark-haired and sulking, and the other worn and greyed and beaten. His eyes were the same though—sad and full of emotion. He looked as if he required a long chat and a good pot of tea, something she'd gladly give him had she the ability to turn back time.

' _No, I still wouldn't_ ,' she thought, glancing over at her husband. There was no need in pondering the what-ifs of history; the past was the past and in that moment, at the very least, she was content.

* * *

The second paramour was a dignitary from the heart of the kingdom.

He had been trapped at the castle by a large snowstorm, one that would not let up and allow travel for more than a few miles in the open. Only the most seasoned veterans of the Kasterborous winters braved the whipping cold and blowing snow, effectively grinding all activity in the march to a halt.

The Marchioness did not think much of him at first, but as the days went by and she remained in close quarters with him, cabin fever took her, as she would later claim, and a two-week fling began as she kept the bookish, oddly-charming man at her side at all hours save for sleep. It was only after the blue skies cleared her head that she realized how much of a bore he was, not to mention a dead-ringer for her deceased father-in-law. Slightly unnerved by the portrait that hung in the hall also appearing on her arm, she dismissed him with gratitude for the company and grateful she had not gone so far as to invite him to her chambers.

It was painful for the Marquis to watch his wife fret over her personal decisions, worrying her brow into lines she was too young for, so to make her feel better (and put him at ease), he had her room adorned in white carnations and red gladioli, with colorful orchids at her bedside. The following day she was cheerful again, putting a smile on her husband's face as he watched her walk through the halls with a lift in her step not seen during the duration of the snowstorm.

He wasn't precisely sure how he felt, other than that it was comforting to see her happy.

* * *

The people who lived in Kasterborous had a generally ambivalent opinion of their lord. He wasn't a cruel man, nor had his father been one, though he remained unpleasant to deal with. They still had to pay taxes, but nothing _too_ arbitrary in nature. The border remained fortified and any breaches were swiftly dealt with. They were not rich, but they were not grossly poor, and the capitol was only lavish when catering to the needs of visiting dignitaries. The title of Marquis may have been an inherited one, but he had more or less earned the title of Doctor, which was something not all his forebears did.

So when it was time for the anniversary of his wedding that Spring, the one to the young woman from further south than anyone cared to venture often (which was not even that south at all), it became a local holiday without fuss. There were no great parties—only closed businesses and sitting in at home with a good cup of tea. The people hoped the day was being used well by the Doctor, to work on procuring the heir he so desperately required while not being bothered with the matters of the land's workings. He had wedded and bedded her, so it was logically only a matter of time before the union bore issue and children once again ran down the blue-grey walls of Castle Gallifrey. The new Companion was young yet; she had time enough to bear a child. That, they imagined, would be preferred to her inheriting the Doctor's duties while searching for an heir to adopt.

She had time, he had time, it was all a matter of time.

* * *

"Who sent you?" the Marchioness asked, her voice cold and stern. The man before her sat silent, staring back with no expression to discern. They were in a tent near a military encampment along the border; showing the lady her troops was a project that was supposed to be completed before the summer rains, but with the metal-armored men and their clockwork weaponry being caught just outside the camps, one could only wonder their mission. The Marquis put a hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her back.

"You might want to let me handle this," he said. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the man studying them, memorizing their faces and mannerisms. "Go back to our tent—I'll meet you there later."

The wind carried screams to her as she sat in their personal tent, the outside surrounded by trusted guards that kept a sharp eye for anything that dared come near the future commander that they were already willing to die for. Eventually the noise died down and the Marquis found his way back to his wife. His jacket was gone, leaving only his waistcoat and rolled shirtsleeves. Eyes wide, brow knit, and a scowl on his lips, he sat down in a chair, facing a corner.

Minutes passed and the silence between them grew deafening. Before long she could not take it anymore and placed a hand on his shoulder, just as he had done.

"It's okay."

"No it's not."

"Yes, it is. We're both still here, yeah?" She slid down to sit in his lap and gently held the side of his head against her chest. It was more physical contact than they'd had in their entire marriage combined, but something told her it needed to be done. Sure enough he began to shake, and wrapped his arms around her waist timidly.

"Everything's not okay," he said. "You say it is, only because you are still good. I have not been good for a very long time."

"You've been good as long as I've known you," she replied sweetly. She smoothed his hair—wild and windblown compared to the start of the day—and held him tighter. "I know… I know it's not what we do, but I think a lie-down will do you good."

"You think so…?"

"I know so." She stood up and led him over to the bed, making sure he was down and comfortable before climbing in and tucking herself beneath his chin and within his grasp. He held her close, his whole body trembling.

"He was paid to kill you," he whispered hoarsely. "I refuse to be twice-widowed, mercenaries be damned. You _will_ rule Kasterborous from the high seat in Gallifrey one day, I promise, and the only one you will have to answer to is the king. That day will come, and I will make sure it happens. I have my heir; I need no other."

With a heavy sigh he pulled her in closer and remained silent, shivering occasionally from the chill seeping in through the creases in the tent. Eventually she used a foot to kick the blankets towards her hands, unable to reach due to him falling asleep mid-hold and refusing to move. She covered them both and settled in, knowing that her being there, being alive, was enough to placate him. The last thing he needed was another succession crisis on his hands, where even simple villagers whispered rumors about the state of the march thanks to a lack of answers about the future. At least with her as the head of the household and being trained in war, there was hope that she could be a solid interim while a child waited to come of age. It was a hope far-flung in their current state, they both knew, but dwelling on it only made things worse.

They laid there, she wrapped protectively in his arms, until morning broke. She woke to an empty bed, still warm from his company. The corner of her lip twisted up—her husband was a good man, she decided, for only good men felt such pain.

* * *

The portrait was not large, but she could tell that its importance was held above most of the others that she had seen while wandering the many corridors the castle provided on cold and rainy day. It was one of her husband, brown-haired and smooth skinned, with a woman as young and fair as he. The Marchioness was so interested in studying the faces peering out at her, that she did not notice her husband's presence until he put a hand on her shoulder, bending slightly to murmur in her ear.

"My father was best friends with her parents and we were betrothed as soon as she was born," he explained. "You grow up hearing of miraculously perfect couples… well… we were one."

"Was it an accident or sickness or…?"

"Childbirth. I went from preparing to present my father my firstborn, to announcing that the marquisate was to go into mourning. It might as well be ancient history; I wouldn't concern yourself with it."

She looked up at him, frowning morosely. "It hit you hard though, didn't it? Her death?"

"It hit everyone hard, not just me. My father never really recovered, and there were people in the hills and villages that still could not believe of her passing even after ten years. She was not a universal favorite, but when the ruling family loses its future, everyone starts to panic."

"You wish you could bring her back, don't you?" she asked. He stared at her, sadness flickering across her face.

"I used to, but I gave up on that long ago. Besides, had she lived, I highly doubt you'd get on."

"You take multiple wives in Kasterborous?" she scoffed.

His eyebrows raised and he laughed in disbelief. "No, not at all! It's just that there would be the chance you were my daughter-in-law, and how awkward would that be then? Grooming my son's wife to become Doctor after me? Protecting her and treating her as if she were my equal? That would be an outrage."

She giggled quietly, wrapping her arms around her husband in a hug. Confusion brought on by the sudden contact froze him in place; neither of them had a scrape with death, and neither of them required comforting. He stood there hunched over her in the empty hall, hands unsure of where was appropriate, and heart racing at such a pace it was as if he had two.

* * *

When it came to choosing her third paramour, there was no contest.

The Marchioness had received the elite squad from the capital alone, her husband away at the border taking part in skirmishes with Cyberan forces. After years of the Marquis requesting aid from the main army, the King finally sent a small task force of twenty soldiers, all hand-picked from various regiments as some of the best the kingdom had to offer. They were there to assist the Marquis in various tasks, such as recruit training and freshening up their defense tactics and other such things that were continually straining his ability to both command and govern.

"You say your post is for a year?" she asked from her seat high on a dais, the one used for governance and sessions of court. The group commander nodded.

"After a year, our unit will be given our new orders. Whether it's to stay here or disband, we do not know, but in the meantime we are at your husband's disposal, milady."

"Mine as well," she reminded her. "Until I bear a child, I am next in line for his position." The Marchioness waved her hand, motioning to the empty chair next to her with a practiced air of indifference. "Stars in the sky forbid, anything happens to my husband while he is on the front lines in your care and this seat is mine. Do not forget that, Commander Stewart."

"Of course, milady," the commander said, bowing in embarrassment. "With your permission, I would like to head out with the rest of my men to meet the Marquis, so we can go straight to work."

She sighed, feigning annoyance. "That is fine. I do wish to talk with one of you though, to get a feel for what I should expect. How about…" She scanned the group and pretended to choose; she had seen him the moment he walked in, and honestly saw no other amongst them. "You. Have your things brought to a room and make yourself presentable. Afterwards a servant will see you to the war room." The soldier, tall and broad-shouldered and neatly-kept, saluted.

"You wouldn't be more comfortable with one of my female subordinates…?" the commander questioned. She recoiled slightly when the Marchioness shot her a cold glare.

"Did I ask for your opinion?" she replied. "I asked for him; maybe in the future I will ask for one of the women, or even you. For now, he shall stay here and explain to me the strategies you wish to present to the Marquis. Depending on how things go, he shall follow you within the week."

"I understand. Alright men, back to the horses! I want to be in the Marquis's tent by nightfall!"

The soldiers left, allowing the Marchioness to dash up to her quarters and quickly straighten herself. She changed her dress, found perfume, and quickly put her hair in a twist before making her way over to the war room. It was a dark, windowless chamber with small vents for air and a secret passageway out that she had been down only once before. She left the door open, as the lock set automatically and very few people had a key (the other being away at the border), and waited for him to arrive.

Not even ten minutes after she sat down at the far end of the oval table, he walked in. His jaw was set and his chest puffed out—his soldier's mask. He saluted her, clicking his heels together with a flourish.

"You wished to see me, ma'am?"

Her heart stung. "Yes. Please close the door." As he did so, she stood and began to walk around the table. He returned to his original position, trying not to look down at the woman now at his side.

"What is it that you wish for me to explain first, ma'am?" he asked. She turned his body to face her and reached up to place a hand on his cheek, gently pulling him down for a kiss.

"How you kept such a straight face while we were in court," she laughed through tears. He leaned into the kiss and swept her up into his arms, refusing to put her down until he found a chair to sit in and place her in his lap. She draped her arms around him and dug her fingertips into his short hair.

"Oh my gods, Clara… I missed you so much…"

"I did too, Daniel." Her voice cracked as she tried not to choke on her words. "I… I almost thought I'd never see you again. Now that you're here, I never want to let you go."

He chuckled at that. "I still need to do my job, you know. It's all I've done since I last saw you and if they catch me slacking off they'll think something suspicious is going on."

"You will be my advisor so that you can come back often, and stay and be in my company and there be legitimate reason so none can argue," she said, trying to fight back against the stinging that was sitting in her eyes.

"…but your lord husband…"

"…wants me to build my military knowledge for when he's gone from this life. He won't object to me keeping an advisor, although how to convince the king to let you remain after a year is another thing entirely."

"Then it's a good thing this is my last assignment," the soldier grinned. He brushed his fingertips against her cheek, looking deep into her eyes. "Once I'm done here I'm done with the king's service and I will be in want of a job."

"This must mean I need to make sure a position opens on payroll between now and then," she giggled. She bent down and kissed him, her heart racing in unbridled joy unknown to her since the last time they met.

Not a single military maneuver was spoken of that night, or the night after. In fact, when the soldier rejoined his unit in the field a week later, he had not uttered a single word about strategy since arriving in Kasterborous, and he was fine with that.

* * *

A month had passed and the ruse was still intact. The Marchioness's paramour, as handsome and attentive and romantic as she remembered, had made the trip back to Gallifrey to confer with her the plans against the Cybera Kingdom's current campaign. They were conferring in the study, her pinning him down on the settee as he caressed her curves further accentuated by her corset. The door opened and they stopped—the Marquis had finally returned from the border.

"Oh, when did you get in?" the Marchioness asked before descending down on her soldier's neck, speaking between kisses. "If I had known you were coming, I would have drawn up the month's expenditures for you to sign off on." The man under her, however, began to shy away from her touch.

"Uh… uh… it's not what it looks like, sir…!" he stammered, attempting to sit up as the Marquis crossed the room. To the soldier's surprise, the other man simply sat down at the table and began to shuffle through the papers scattered there.

"How is this one working out?" the Marquis asked simply. He did not look up from his work, astounding the soldier with his lack of reaction.

"Daniel was the suitor that prompted my father to marry me off," she said. "I love him; I always have, and I always will. He's the one."

"What is going on here?" the soldier asked. "Clara, why isn't your lord _husband_ angry with us?"

"Do you see this scar on my hand?" she asked, holding out her palm. He examined it closely, seeing the faint puckering along a crease in the skin. "The blood that stained my wedding bed came from there—the union was never consummated."

He had to double-take, not all that sure he could believe what he was hearing. "You've been married almost two years and you haven't shared a bed?"

"Only for sleeping," the Marquis chimed in. He glanced over at the two on the settee and paused, feeling a curious weight form in his stomach. "I'd wait until the wedding night with him, if I were you. We look too different for me to pass his child as my own."

"Wait, what…? You mean, you're encouraging this?"

"Clara is my heir, and one day she will become the Fourteenth Marchioness, the Thirteenth Doctor, and you will be her Companion. Your firstborn will be the Fifteenth Marquis and Fourteenth Doctor, and so on and so forth, as long as your bloodline prevails. Mine is done and over with—I am the last in my line."

"You don't marry an heir," the soldier stated.

"You don't adopt an adult woman with a father still living, who possesses the ability to go toe-to-toe with anyone the king decides to throw up here to watch over us," the Marquis growled, narrowing his eyes. "Wives are as good of heirs as sons, and considering my long absences, I'd be cruel to not let her keep around someone that can do for her what I cannot. Be thankful you will be consort to a woman that can give your children status and power—if I remember correctly, the only thing you have to give them is a broad back and a soldier's stance."

"Excuse me?! I have more to give a child than my looks," the soldier snapped back. "Love, compassion, _manners_ … your world may run on wealth and riches, but don't think that means I buy that for myself." He kissed the Marchioness on the cheek and stood up, smoothing out his clothes. "Sorry, but I have to go."

"…but…"

"I'll see you tomorrow; I have a lot of letter-writing I need to catch up on." He then left the room, with his lady snapping her head towards her husband with enough force to kill.

"He is the _one_ , Johan," she hissed. "You told me I could have a paramour and he is it."

"Well, he seems fairly self-important for a man with no family, no lineage, no anything," the Marquis snorted. "It's not every day you're handed the opportunity to found a dynasty with the full consent of the ruling one."

"Yes, says the man with no family, no legacy, and had to marry in order to find someone who would put up with you long enough to be your heir," she spat. "Wasn't your grandfather a twin? You have a cadet branch lying in-wait."

He scoffed at the idea, clearly finding it ridiculous. "Why would I hand over everything I've worked for to those idiots? I'd rather leave the march in the hands of an actual child… which is how you're acting right now, thank you."

"Go to hell," she spat before storming out of the study. She spent the rest of the day in her bedchamber, glaring at the wall she shared with her husband, only feeling calm again when she awoke to find flowers on her nightstand. Rue and baby's breath and roses—yellow and white and a dark, musty pink—made her stare and wonder why her husband had knowledge of such things. It was the gardener in the glasshouse, or him choosing at random, she eventually decided before dressing for the day. She did not yet forgive him, but it was a start.

* * *

' _Meet me in the war room as soon as you can find the time_ ,' read the note. The Marchioness furrowed her brow at the words written in her husband's quick scrawl. That sure was a way to announce he was home after whole months away. Did he come back home with her love, or did he have to stay in the field a few more weeks to not draw suspicion? She went down to the war room at once, sliding her key into the self-locking door and admitting herself to the dirge that waited inside.

Around the table sat a small handful of the King's elite task force, most beaten and bloodied and injured to some capacity. At the head sat the Marquis, a cut upon his brow and his face set in steel. Maps covered in miniatures blanketed the tabletop, clearly having been shuffled around several times within a short while.

"What happened?" she gasped, her blood running cold in her veins. She almost asked for her suitor's condition, but caught herself. "Please tell me you'll be fine, Johan."

"It's a scrape; nothing to worry about," he grunted. "I'm far better off than most of the others that survived the retreat."

"R—retreat…?"

"It was a sneak attack by Cyberan soldiers," one of the king's men explained. "Some of our best died or were captured out there."

Died? Captured? She could feel the color draining from her face. "Where is my advisor?"

"I don't know—no one does," the man explained. He ignored the trembling inhale the Marchioness took to calm herself as she let the information soak in.

_They didn't know._

Just like that—no search party, no returned token, no fiery declaration to liberate him from his captors. He was gone, possibly to never be seen again, and there was nothing she could do. She looked at her husband, whose eyes were apologetic and hurting.

"I know you trusted him," he said, "and I would rather have told you alone, but I do not know how long this will keep me from bed tonight."

She paused, unsure of what else to say, what else to do. Quickly she composed herself and hid behind her wifely ruse. "No… I understand. It is good to know I don't need to wait up. Will you wake me if I am needed?"

"Get your rest, my dear. We'll talk in the morning."

After bowing her head in a curtsey, the Marchioness excused herself from the war room and returned to her chambers. It was something of an accomplishment that she made it all the way to the wash basin before vomiting, she recounted later, after crying so hard her eyes hurt. She sent away her servants and laid in bed, watching the sky out her window change from bright blue to deep red. As night fell she changed into her bedclothes and attempted to sleep.

Tossing here and turning there, she soon discovered that rest as not going to come easy. Eventually she heard movement on the other side of the wall—the Marquis—and decided that what good was a husband unless she took advantage of that fact every once in a while? She eased herself out of bed and padded over to their shared door.

"Johan…?"she asked, her brow pressed against the painted wood between them. "May I come in?" She heard shuffling and rustling, and the door opened. Her husband looked at her with worry in his tired, bloodshot eyes.

"Are you alright?"

"Please, can I stay with you tonight?" Her heart was heavy as she looked at the wallpaper, avoiding eye contact. "You're not Daniel but…"

"…something tells me you're in need of a friend," he finished, giving her an understanding smile. He held the door open for her, shutting it as she entered his bedchamber for the first time. She did not so much as glance around, for as soon as she found the mattress she slid under the bedding and curled up.

Climbing in next to her, he pulled the blankets over them and, after some internal debate, carefully wrapped an arm around his wife's waist, folding the other underneath his head as a pillow. She pressed her face into his chest, gripping the fabric of his nightdress tightly. A minute of silence passed before she shook, a sob escaping into the night.

"Don't cry now; we don't know what happened to him," he said in an effort to soothe her. The attempt was in vain, however, as she unwittingly ignored his concern and panic. He wracked his brain in order to find the right words to say. "He could walk in the front door tomorrow for all we know. No one knows for sure."

"It's not fair…" she croaked. "He's gone, and the only answer anyone can give is that they _don't know_. He didn't go out in a blaze of glory. He didn't die protecting his comrades. He wasn't captured after manning a stronghold by himself for three days. No one knows… and that's so _boring_."

"We did what we could with what we were presented with, Clara," he murmured. "Now you know my fears for every time I leave Gallifrey. You don't deserve this; I will find you an answer, I can promise you that."

"Make it a good one, Doctor," she whispered. Propping herself up on an elbow, she kissed him on the cheek in thanks. She nestled back into her husband's arms, failing to see the wide eyes and slack jaw that adorned his face in shock. He looked at the top of her head, feeling her breathing slowing against his chest, and tightened his grip around her. She made a little noise, sad but assured. It was going to be okay—he was going to make sure of that.

* * *

With reinforcements from Gallifrey, the Cyberan soldiers were pushed back into their own lands in less than a few days. The Marquis went and took a survey of the dead—his wife's beloved was nowhere amongst the fresh corpses, nor was his things amongst what was stripped of the bodies the Cyberans had burned beyond recognition. All he could find was a metal cuff adorned in the style of the paramour's homelands, fallen off in a struggle or dropped during a looting. He took it home and presented it to his wife in private, with her sitting on her bed and he knelt down before her. She cried as she put it on her wrist, appreciative of what little her husband could bring. They slept in her bed that night, and every night for the remainder of the month.

Her room stayed well-stocked in marigolds and heather and eglantines as she privately mourned. She ached in places that shouldn't and had to force herself to eat. Court and servants alike thought it was merely the first close loss of war finally hardening her constitution into that of a future commander of steel and stone. Only the Marquis knew it was a woman widowed in spirit, and did his best to keep that knowledge to himself.

* * *

 

"I'm going to the Daleki border tomorrow, and I'll probably be gone for a few weeks," he said as they sat up in the study. "Will you be alright on your own?"

"Yes," she replied quietly, adding sums. "I suppose… I need to start looking for a new paramour."

"Take your time," he said. He reached across the table and gently placed one of his hands on his wife's, bringing her to pause her writing. "It has barely been two months. If you choose now, you'll likely do something you'll regret later. I know what it's like to be widowed, remember that."

"Did _you_ do something you regret?"

"Nearly; I almost let an old friend lead me down the wrong path. Luckily I caught myself before anything terrible happened. Just know that I understand, alright? Don't go looking for another quite yet."

"I won't," she nodded. The conversation ended there, for the topic veered off into finances and military goals. It was not as if they ignored the gaping hole in her heart, but to mind it, to let it sit and fester, would be the exact opposite of help.

* * *

She saw him again next as they sat down to dinner, nearly three weeks to the day hence. One look at her husband and she burst into giggles.

"What?" he asked, almost insulted.

"Your whiskers," she snickered. She pointed at his face, as if he did not realize there was a moustache and carefully-sculpted beard covering his chin. "I never knew you to let them grow longer than two days."

"Oh, I usually end up growing this out in the field," he huffed. "It makes for a shorter time preparing for the day ahead. I tend to cut it off by the time I see you again, but there was no time between arriving and dinner."

"Well it definitely is an interesting change, _milord_ ," she smirked, taking a spoonful of soup. The Marquis blinked perplexedly—she had barely called him anything other than his name in well over two years, and definitely not in jest. He felt his heart skip a beat and his face grow warm as he watched her eat.

"Do you… like it…?"

"You could do worse."

"Should I keep it?"

"Only if it is what _milord_ wishes," she replied. She then went back to her dinner, dropping the subject entirely.

Later, as he dressed for bed, the Marquis kept glancing at his reflection in the mirror. He had never given much thought to long whiskers before, and now that his wife made mention of it he saw that he rather liked them. They _did_ make him look more lordly… he supposed, in a way. With his nightdress on, he turned to look at the door. Something churned within him, a sensation both old and young at once. She was there, just on the other side of the wall, past the door that had been built to give whoever ruled the land access to his wife even during marital spats. He approached the painted wood and touched the knob—no, he had to rest.

No sooner was he warm within his bedding did he hear the very door that joined the bedchambers open and the Marchioness creeping into the room. She slipped under the blankets and wrapped her arms around his middle, placing her nose in his hair.

"I missed you," she whispered. "I didn't know you being gone would make things so lonely."

"You were not without one of us for very long for quite a time," he replied, grateful she was pressing herself into his back and not his front. "We shared a bed every night for weeks."

"…and I slept in here for the weeks after. It still smells like you, even when you're not here. It's a comfort."

"Go to sleep, Clara," he sighed, hoping his voice remained level as he bit his lip and his eyes grew wide. She muttered something back, already halfway there, and matched her slow breathing to his.

* * *

He had been away only a few days, though when he returned he could barely wait to see her.

"I got you something," he explained happily, a grin plastered across his face. She raised her eyebrows and put down her book.

"Really now? What's the occasion?"

"No occasion; I just… thought you'd like it…"

She looked at her husband curiously as he stood in the middle of her bedchamber, displaying emotions never really shown to this degree before. It was unusual—the most excited he usually got was when he saw the tail end of a political convoy.

"What is it?" she asked, playing along. He held out a hand.

"I need to bring you to it," he said. The corner of her mouth twitched upwards.

"Alright then, let's go." She followed him out the door and into the corridor, only for him to hunch down and stare at her straight in the eyes.

"Don't look," he requested. She paused, giving him another questioning glance, before closing her eyes tight. It was only a moment before she felt her left hand in his and his right hand lightly rest on her other shoulder, guiding her along. "Trust me, please."

"I trust you," she echoed.

They walked through the castle, ascending staircases with fair warning and traveling through drafty areas she could not place. Eventually they stopped and he bent down to hiss quietly in her ear.

"Open."

She opened her eyes and saw directly in front of her a telescope, over half her height in length and adorned in intricate circular designs. The room around them was mostly empty, save for them and a few boxes in the corner covered in sheets—they were high in one of the towers. Turning her head, she looked at her husband with their noses almost touching.

"You got this for me?"

"It was reclaimed, just the other day, from a Cyberan camp. The original owner no longer has use for worldly possessions, and I thought you'd be interested in the stars for the nights when I'm not here."

"What about the nights when you are here?" she quipped, pecking his cheek. She moved from his blushing grasp and examined the device. "It's beautiful… thank you."

"That's Old Gallifreyan on it," he said. "It's nothing more than an ancient scholar's language best used as schoolboys' code, but I can teach you to read it, if you want."

"You mean this says something?" she asked. She traced one of the designs with her fingers. "What does it say?"

" _'Look to the stars, and your problems on the ground will be solved.'_ It's an old expression pretty much saying to not worry too often."

"It's lovely. I think maybe I would like a lesson, to see how I like it."

"Then we can start right now." He began to move his long fingers over the designs, sounding out the words as he went. She followed suit, and before long they were back in the study, poring over books written in the old language with the Marchioness insisting she learn as quick as possible. Kasterborous and Gallifrey were now her home as well—and not knowing her people's ancient writings was nothing more than an insult.

* * *

"Why do you say 'hearts'?" the Marchioness asked one day. Her husband looked up over his papers and cocked an eyebrow.

"Pardon?"

"Just now, you muttered about your hearts were not in the taxes you need to levy this year. Why hearts?"

"Oh… that…" He took off his spectacles and put down his papers. "You know how I'm the Doctor?"

"Yes…?"

"Well, it is said that the Doctor has two hearts. One is the same as everyone else's, from yours to the servants' to the folk in the hills'. What sets the Doctor aside from all others is his second heart, the one that's tied to the people and the lands that he serves. You will be given the second heart symbolically at your creation ceremony."

"How poetic," she smirked. "Is that another holdover from before Kasterborous was a march?"

"Yes." He turned back to his work, leaving his wife to ponder the notion. A man with two hearts was bound to possess twice the love as a normal man. She smiled privately and looked back down at her book.

* * *

"How _dare_ you," the Marchioness hissed, her eyes narrowing as she bolted up from her chair. She slowly descended the dais, coming within feet of the man who stood before her. "You think that you can just come into my lord husband's house and speak such lies of him in his own court? He, the Most Noble and Potent Prince of Kasterborous and Gallifrey?"

"I speak the truth, milady," the man replied as he struggled to keep his frown set. She was a head shorter at the least, but his instinct was telling him to flee. "He had sent enforcers to the foothills that razed and raped our village. They bore his symbol."

"You would be surprised at how many things can be falsified," she growled. In his chair, her husband shifted in place, watching in awe at her conduct from behind his marquis's mask. "The only person that was to go to your village was a tax collector, to take half of what you owe and come back for the rest in a fortnight. You should be here asking my husband for help in capturing the criminals, not accusing him of being one."

"How would _you_ know who he sent?" the man spat.

" _He_ didn't send _anyone_ , because _I_ sent the tax collector, not him," she said, her voice all venom and spite. "I may be the Companion, but one day I will be the Doctor, and that does not mean I sit in my chambers doing needlework all day and pleasing my husband at night. Now that I know why I had not heard from the collector when scheduled, we can start the investigation as to his whereabouts and who it was that had his credentials. You are dismissed."

The village man recoiled slightly, his nerves fraying. "You can't just dismiss me!"

"I already have." She spun on her heel and made a vague gesture with her hand, prompting the guards to escort the man out of court. The Marquis watched her as she climbed back to her seat, a fire igniting low in his gut and a chill creeping up his spine. It was a privilege, he knew, to see his wife's potential for wrath and glory as raw as what she had just displayed.

' _I want her_ ,' he suddenly realized. His face grew hot at the idea, knowing he wanted everything about her: her sweetest giggle, her damning fury, and everything in between. ' _Stars in the sky help me… I desire my wife… she is my heir—her future is supposed to be Kasterborous and Gallifrey, not me. What should I do?_ '

He did not look at her the remainder of the court session, only halfway committing to glances made towards his left. His legs were crossed and his face was flushed with color—he yearned for his wife more than anything and he did not know how to go about it.

Sweet-smelling lilacs found their way to her room the following day, along with a vase of orange lilies and pale yellow pear-flowers. She thought the vase to be the gardener's joke, or him running low on other blooms, when she found in it a single sprig of coriander blossoms. It was amusing, definitely, though part of her wondered if her bouquets ever did have meaning behind them after all.

* * *

Hosting a ball was an incredible amount of work, she decided, and she would much rather do without the chore. Her wants were not always what was important, though, and she had everything planned down to the letter. Their guests were southern lords and ladies, from the actual south and not the false sense of south her husband seemed to have, which essentially included the entire kingdom outside of Kasterborous's boundaries. She was determined to not seem like they were barely surviving in the wild, which was how she was sure they saw Gallifrey, and she took to being hostess like she took all her other duties as Head of House and Marchioness—like a knife took to butter.

A week worth's of whirlwind activities keeping her on her feet did not prepare her for the vast amount of sitting she was doing while the court was being presented. She was jittery and fidgeted, wanting to check on the wine and the nibbles and make sure the footmen were all dressed properly. The perfectly crafted mask of serenity she had put on that day was already beginning to crack, and the sun had yet to set.

Once the presentations were complete she felt the Marquis's hand rest upon hers, feather-light and tender as he picked her hand up from the armrest. She glanced over at him and almost lost her breath at the sight of his grey-blue eyes.

"It's about time we open the ball, my dear," he said. They both rose from their governance chairs, holding hands as they walked down to the ballroom floor. She curtsied with a flourish. He bowed at the waist, bring her hand to his lips and kissing the knuckles.

Her mask cracked, crumbled, and fell all at once, her lips parting slightly and her eyebrows twitching in surprise. Once the dance started she quickly rebuilt and replaced the mask, wearing the new one for the remainder of the night without another falter. The remainder of the ball went well, with everyone congratulating their hostess on a job well-done.

Afterwards, however, she stood in the doorway between her bedchamber and her husband's, staring at him as he undressed.

"You haven't kissed me since our wedding," she said, holding on to the doorjamb.

He paused and folded up his breeches before placing them on a chair. "I know; I'm a bit overdue."

"…but why? Why kiss me in front of everyone? You could have given me warning."

"I wanted to see your reaction," he replied. Now in his nightdress, he crossed the room and met his wife by the door. He took her right hand in both of his and kissed the back of it, locking gazes. "I apologize for putting you on the spot like that, but I had to know your genuine response."

"Did I react satisfactorily?" she asked quietly. They said nothing as he seemed to study her features with faraway eyes, only bringing the moment to a close when he released her hand, brushing his thumb against her cheek. He then, without a word, went to bed.

Retreating back to her chambers, she closed the door and began to prepare for bed herself. Her heart pounded in her constricting chest, causing her to breathe heavily as her mind raced.

' _He wants an heir, not a wife to bear his children_ ,' she thought as she removed her dress, her corset, her metal cuff. ' _That's what it has been from the beginning: I am going to inherit his lands and rule with my paramour and my children will be part of the new dynasty in Castle Gallifrey. He did not marry me for love. I did not marry him for love._ '

Then, the impossible crossed her mind as she pulled on her nightdress: ' _We were not in love when we wed, but… are we_ _ **now**_?' She shuddered and went over to her bedside table, snuffing out the lamp flame. She stared at the bouquet next to her on the tabletop—honeysuckle and red and yellow tulips—in the pale moonlight and exhaled heavily.

Quietly, she made the trip beyond the door and to her husband's side. Instead of climbing in the bed she sat down, waiting for him to stir and face her.

"Johan?"

"Clara?" His voice was hazy and distant, nearly trapped within sleep.

"You meant it, right?"

He shifted in bed, rolling over and looking up at his wife. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Good," she replied. She leaned forward and kissed his lips tentatively, placing one hand on his chest for support. Eventually, he reached his hands up and held her face as he kissed back, a mess of nerves and, strangely enough, relief.

"You reacted fine," he murmured as his wife parted for a breath. "You always react perfectly, no matter what. That's why I chose you."

"…to be your heir?"

"No… to be my _wife_."

Choking on a laugh, she took her husband's hands from her face and laid down within his grasp. He kissed her again, letting his hands trail along her back as he poured all the emotion he could into his embrace. She rolled onto her back as they nestled in for sleep, allowing him to use her shoulder for a pillow. They did not lay as husband and wife, but that night they were closer than all other nights before, and for that, they were ecstatic.

* * *

He hovered over her, his elbows digging into the mattress on either side of his wife as he hesitated. They had done this before, and they were still in their nightdresses, so there shouldn't have been a problem, but…

"So, you like when I leave you flowers?" he asked suddenly. His wife sighed and nodded.

"Yes—I didn't think you knew schoolgirls' code," she said. "I thought that maybe it had been the gardener, or his assistant, but not you."

"Flowers have spoken since long before you or I." He paused, furrowing his brow in thought. "Is there anything I should work on? Oh… should I keep the whiskers? Do you prefer a full beard?"

"Try not to be so nervous, keep the whiskers if you want, and grow a full beard if you want. Johan… you're a wreck."

He slowly lowered himself down, placing his ear just below her collarbone so as to listen to her heart. "I don't want to ruin it."

"It's a kiss; how can you ruin a kiss?"

"Very easily, my dear."

* * *

When the Marquis came back from his yearly survey of the march, his hearts ached. His lands had kept him away for longer than he now liked. When he tried to seek her out, he found the Marchioness governing from her Companion's seat as she listened to grievances of the common folk. He watched her from afar, admiring her grace and the concern with which she listened to her subjects. They loved her, he could tell, which made his chest swell and join in on the aching.

He quickly left the hall and returned to his quarters. A wash, fresh clothes unstained from travel, and some carefully-trimmed whiskers later, he sat down on his bed and waited for movement on the other side of the wall. Minutes, hours, days, years, they all felt the same as time passed. Finally, he heard her door open and shut—she was back.

With as much as his heart wanted to burst from his chest, he opened their shared door almost sheepishly. He saw her before she saw him, as she had sat down in a chair with a book in Old Gallifreyan, her back to him. Crossing the room to kneel down before her on bended knee, he took her hand in his and kissed it.

"Johan," she gasped, looking from her husband, to the open door between their chambers, and back. "I thought you were still tending to things around the city."

"I missed you," he replied simply. She took her hand from his and caressed his cheek, causing him to breathe deeply in a shudder and her to smile warmly.

"…and I missed you."

He then reached up with both hands, cradling her face as he brought her down and kissed her. Long and sure, it cemented their courtship and infused in it passion, desire, and adoration. It was an odd feeling, love, coming from a source four years in the making.

* * *

"Tell us, Clara, how are things in Kasterborous, according to the outsider's perspective?"

"Just fine, Father," she replied sweetly. They were being hosted by the Earl of Braxos, in a rather small party of northern lords and ladies. The Marchioness sipped her soup and slipped behind her mask as she felt her stepmother turn towards her from down the table.

"So no little _miracles_ we need be aware of?" Stepmother asked, a cold bite to her words. She glanced at her stepdaughter's wrist and frowned. "Where did you get that cuff? It looks southern in make."

"It was my military advisor's—I keep it as a reminder of what could happen to my lord husband every time he goes off to defend the border," the Marchioness replied. That was at least partly true; she had originally worn it as a token of her former paramour, but with each passing day it became a sobering reminder of the dangers the Marquis faced regularly. "We were of an age, and he was good with jokes and explaining strategy. His loss put reality to the forefront."

"I'm sorry to hear that, truly," the Earl said. He himself was at least a kind man and Clara knew those words to be heartfelt. If it had been the Lady Braxos, who was as vapid and acidic as Stepmother, then, well, that would have been a different story. "Has it been long, if you do not mind my asking?"

"Two years," the Marquis replied through his wine. He set down his glass and leaned back into his seat. "He was a good lad, one I would have kept around once his service to the king was fulfilled. He had an innate talent for stratagem and his work with numbers was brilliant."

"…as long as that was the only things he had innate talents for," Stepmother quipped. The Marchioness's eyebrows shot up in barely-contained outrage.

"Pardon?"

"I'm just saying that a year and a half ago we invited you for a visit, yet for some reason you were dreadfully busy… too busy to come." By now the rest of the party was quiet, wondering what sort of familial spat they would soon be privy to. "What could possibly keep you from your girlhood home other than being shut off from the world in seclusion? _Maternal_ seclusion, perhaps?"

"Linda, stop it," Father ordered. "That is uncalled for."

"It's a perfectly legitimate question—isn't that the emblem of her lover's lands on her wrist? The very one that _caused_ you to marry her off to begin with?" she replied. "I'd heard rumor that her baseborn suitor had found her again, and that proves it to be true. There's no way she could pass one of his whelps for a highborn child… seclusion only makes sense."

"The only man my lady wife has shared a bed with is _me_ ," the Marquis growled. He leaned forward, as much as his sitting position would allow, and furrowed his eyebrows angrily. "She was a maiden on our wedding night and has been faithful to my wishes ever since. So far we are childless, but that does not mean that it leaves questions about her character open to critique from the likes of you or anyone. If it would not destroy a perfectly good man I would cut you down until there was nothing left but sniveling fodder for gossip behind courtly fans and greasy ale mugs. If visiting her girlhood home means being within a proximity to _you_ , then I can only imagine why she'd tell you she was busy."

The room fell quiet, a prolonged spell of silence blanketing them. Finally, the Marchioness placed her napkin on the table and pushed her chair away.

"I'll be in my chambers, if you are in need of my company," she announced, her voice cracking. "I apologize, milord—you have been most kind." She left without looking at anyone, for there were tears welling up in her eyes as she walked out.

"Hmm. It appears the heavy food has affected us both," Stepmother said sourly. She made to stand, with the Marquis raising a hand to halt her.

"You're not going anywhere, _Viscountess_ ," he snapped. "I don't care if you vomit on the table; you're staying here until dinner is done."

"You can't order me around—you're not my husband, nor my host."

"No, but I do outrank both of them. Now eat and be grateful I'm not sending you on a carriage back to whatever hole you came slithering out of this very moment." The rest of the dinner party stayed silent until their host changed topics.

Later, the Marquis joined his wife in their room, where she was recovering from a fit of tears and hysteria. He held her gently in his lap and arms, listening to her as she explained her family through sobs. Her father was in a political marriage as well—her stepmother's family was incredibly rich for being baronets and their wealth secured that her father's lands would not risk ruin anytime soon. She did not love him, nor did he love her, and their example was what the Marchioness had feared upon her own wedding day.

Her husband stroked her hair and kissed her cheeks and lips and nose cautiously. The stepmother was a woman too bold for her position, he reminded her. She was upstart and power-hungry from the moment she came into the world; the Marchioness, however, was born to wield power. He had no doubts that his wife was going to be one of the greatest rulers Kasterborous and Gallifrey had ever seen, gossipy wives of fathers be damned. She kissed him in thanks, which soon turned to hunger as she yearned for nothing more than the man before her. Running her hands across his body, she imagined the two of them as the love ballad to be sung by courtiers for generations.

"Tonight, please, I beg of you."

"No," he breathed, stroking her cheek, "not while we are under someone else's roof. You are my moon and my stars, my sky of blood and blue, and I will not act like some wild animal marking his territory." He kissed her brow gently. "After we've gone home, I promise."

"I will hold you to that, Doctor."

* * *

Red carnations, primroses, and forget-me-nots littered her bedchamber, lit only by the moonlight and the stars hanging in the blood-red sky. The remnants of their private dinner sat on the low table by the chairs to be collected in the morning. They were not to be bothered, save for an emergency, and that was an order given with the gravest severity. Months of surprise trips to the border and immovable moon-cycles and unannounced guests had kept them apart. Now, they were determined to make the night theirs.

They had undressed one another and tumbled into the bed, a tangle of limbs and exchanged kisses across lips and necks and collarbones. He was hard and she was wet and they were both more willing than they ever had been, until he inhaled sharply, drawing breath from her lungs.

"Sorry," he murmured before vanishing from his spot above her. She gulped down air, her chest heaving, as she was left to lay in bed splayed out and staring up at her canopy. When he did not return, she rolled out of bed, put on her robe, and quietly made her way to their door. Sure enough, he was curled up on his bed with his back to her.

"Johan," she sighed as she crossed the bedchamber and sat beside him. "What is the matter?"

"It's not right," he replied faintly. "Something about this is not right. We are doing something wrong."

"You want this, yes?"

"More than I can say."

"Then there should be no problem. You want this, and I want this, so what has gone wrong?"

Sitting up, he bowed his head and took her hand in his, holding it close to his brow. "To have and hold; to strengthen our bonds and those of the kingdom; to protect and serve until one of us breathes their last…"

_Their vows_.

"…to aid the kingdom, Kasterborous, and Gallifrey with our counsel; to give to another what we want in return; to nurture, foster, and ensure our issue; to continue on, even when we are no more than names on the breath of elders," she finished. Unhooking her hand from his, she shrugged out of her robe and pushed it onto the floor. "You may kiss your bride."

With a sigh of relief he pulled her further into the bed and did as he was told, pressing her shoulders and hips down into the mattress. She was all gasps and hisses as he took her, though she urged him on as she whispered and moaned his name. Her nails dug into his back as he came, completing their marriage ceremony nearly five years late. They laid with one another, holding as per their twice-said vows, only disrupting their peace when she rolled him onto his back and it was her turn to do the taking.

Their second wedding bed had nowhere near the amount of blood as the first—a few drops the chambermaids blamed on a reopened scab gained on the road—but what it did have was more devotion than either had ever thought possible back when they met. They may have been an odd match, but sometimes even odd matches had the potential to be perfect ones.

* * *

Spring went and Summer passed and the servants, who were paid rather well to not notice, saw that the Marquis had more or less taken up residence in his wife's chambers. They hoped it was not something of a terrible omen, that he was not secretly ill, or that he would ride out to the borders one day and end up joining his childhood-betrothed in the castle courtyard. Prayers went out to the stars and gods, wishing for their fears to be unfounded. It was a change in behavior worth noting, and noticeable changes late in life were not always the best.

* * *

"Johan…?" she asked, keeping her eyes on the canopy. The autumn wind outside howled, rattling the windowpanes. "Johan, have you noticed anything odd lately?"

"No," he replied. Another burst of wind attacked the window and he drew his arm around her waist tighter, digging his fingertips into her bare flesh. He pressed a kiss into her shoulder. "Why? Should something seem odd?"

"I…" She hesitated, craning her neck to see that her husband's eyes were still closed. "I think I might be with child."

His eyes snapped open and within seconds he was above her, halfway to tears borne of horror. "Are you sure? Are you able to tell so soon? It's not even been an hour, yet…"

"No, Johan, my moon-cycle never came last month, and it should be here now," she said. "If it is a child, then I will no longer be the Fourteenth Marchioness of Kasterborous and Gallifrey… _we_ will have an heir."

"You can't be… no, no, no…" he panicked, pulling her in close as he buried his face in the curve of her neck. "I'm—I'm old enough for my seed to be too weak to take hold. Men don't become fathers at my age."

"They do if their wives are young," she groaned, rolling her eyes. "Honestly… only women become infertile with age, not men. You're not even that old, Johan."

He held her tighter, not liking her answer. "I can't do it… I refuse…"

"You refuse to father a child?" she asked with mild amusement.

"I refuse to bury another wife because of my child," he croaked. "I'm too old—I can't do it again. My hearts can't take it."

"I'm going to have a baby, not die in your arms," she assured, stroking his hair soothingly. "We will hold our firstborn together, you'll see."

"I thought that before, Clara. I can't have it happen again."

She calmly took one of his hands in hers and placed it on her stomach. "Don't you think that this child could possibly be the stars in our sky? It's coming, and you can't stop that."

"I know, but…" He trailed off in thought before finishing, his voice more resolute. "You are going to be looked after by the finest doctors, I swear it."

"…but _you're_ the Doctor," she chuckled.

"Yes, the useless sort with two hearts and the will of his people behind him. I can't protect you with an imaginary organ and willpower alone. That is a fact."

"It is also a fact that most women are made to bear multiple children. Not all are, and not all do, but many _can_ , no matter how worried their husbands get."

He lay silent for a moment, his head on her shoulder and his stare on their hands. "When do we announce to the march you're wi… with child?"

"When the court doctor clears it," she said. "Before you know it, I will have a suckling babe at my breast and you will be a proud father bouncing his child on his knee."

"…but I don't know the first thing about being a father."

"You will. I mean, we do have an entire castle to help us."

"I guess we do, don't we?" he laughed weakly. He stroked his wife's stomach and closed his eyes. After a pause, he murmured "I have an idea."

"…and what may that be?"

"I'm getting older and, well, even though I can still father a child, it will soon become increasingly difficult to govern the march if my bones get achy and my eyesight weakens further. My duties turned me grey and mourning took my youth, so what man at fifty risks becoming a new father while he could have creaking joints and shaky hands develop any day?" He gently pressed down on his wife's stomach, as if to reach the new life inside. "How about… when we announce that you're with child… we also announce your creation as Doctor."

"You mean… give up your position?" she asked.

"No, _share_ my position," he said, blinking his eyes open. "We are two equals as one, there is no doubt about that. Let our child be the Fourteenth Marquis, the thirteenth Doctor, but you're just as much the Twelfth Doctor now as I am. If we share the position, you will be my literal second heart. That way, if my age does catch up to me, I can still govern from home with my heir playing at my feet and my second heart being my link to the common folk and soldiers."

The Marchioness scratched her husband's scalp as she shook her head and sighed. "What if I end up with child again? Who will ride to the common folk and the soldiers then?"

"The chieftainesses of old rode their horses until they were large with child, some until the day before they gave birth." He lifted his hand and moved it around, showing her the dome shape their child would soon create in her figure. "You'd have to take a physician along with you, just to be safe, but I can see it clear as day: the Doctor riding to greet her soldiers, the perfect image of motherly grace and military prowess." He leaned up and kissed her neck. "I promised you all my power and might, and it is only fair that I let you wield it properly."

"Then I accept your offer of all of Kasterborous as ours to rule," she said. Rolling over onto her husband's chest, she looked down at him so that her hair fell around their faces and hid their kisses from the fallen leaves beating against their window. They fell asleep entwined, lulled by one another's beating hearts and the smell of heliotrope from the nightstand. Morning would bring more kisses and close whispers and caresses of husband and wife and firstborn alike.

* * *

When the Marquis next rode out to the Daleki border, his fellow riders noticed he was much more distracted than he normally was. By the time they reached the military encampment he seemed anxious to return home… unusual behavior even when he was avoiding going to command the troops. When they did make it back to the halls of Castle Gallifrey, he vanished to the Marchioness's quarters, if the servants were to be believed. All he did was spend time at her side, which wasn't so much a new development as it was a curious one to sustain for their marriage being one that was supposed to be a balm for an heirless state. At least…that had been the Marquis's original intent.

A week passed and an announcement was made that had the entire march buzzing with excitement. Not only was the Marchioness to be made the Doctor, a role nearly all who met her would agree was her calling, but she was also with child. Toasts were raised all across Kasterborous, and even outside its borders. The marquisate's future was secure; the succession crisis would soon be finally, truly, over.

* * *

The surprise came after he had been dealing with hostiles along the Cyberan border for nearly a month.

"Your Ladyship," gasped a servant, gulping down air from her run through the halls. "The Marquis has returned, and wishes to see you at once."

"I'm on my way," the Marchioness replied, quickly standing and walking out the door to her chambers. After making sure the servant was fine, she gathered her skirts and ran towards the study. What demanded her attention so quickly? Was the Marquis okay? Was he injured? Stars in the sky forbid, she did not want to be the Doctor of Gallifrey just yet. She burst into the study, quickly closing the door behind her.

The sight that greeted her made her heart shatter: her husband was there, perfectly well, standing next to a man whose face was drawn and sad, aged worse than she ever thought imaginable. Tears welled in her eyes as she stepped backwards into the door.

"D-Daniel…?"

"Clara," he choked. She ran to him and planted kisses along his face, now soft as old leather and studded with metal in the Cyberan fashion. Other studs formed hard lumps underneath his uniform and poked her body mockingly. "I'm so glad to see you again."

"As am I," she sniffled. "I thought you were dead."

"I thought so too; not many prisoners of war make it out of Cybera, and those that do are usually brainwashed into becoming moles." He took a deep breath, looking directly into her eyes. "I resisted, because I wanted to see you again as me and not some enemy spy."

"…but Daniel… you're _dead_ ," she choked out. "You've been dead for over _three years_."

"I was as good as, but now I'm not." He watched as she sank onto the settee, her face distraught and conflicted instead of the joyful and happy he had been hopelessly pining for. "…I still am, aren't I?"

"You were buried to me," she said, touching the metal cuff she wore on her wrist. "I mourned and grieved and put you to history. Daniel, I love you, but…"

"No… I understand," he said. He sat down next to her and kissed her forehead. "I had a feeling this would happen, since it's been so long. I… I just wish it wasn't like this." He chuckled softly, reaching out and letting his fingers run through her hair.

"I've offered Daniel a position in my advisory board," the Marquis cut in. He had sat down at the table and begun to pen a letter. "He has good practical knowledge of the inner workings of Cybera, and is resistant to their brainwashing techniques. Kasterborous and the entire kingdom could benefit from him…"

"…but only if it's okay with you," the found man finished. "Can you handle receiving my counsel and eventually courting another?"

The tears finally escaping down her face, the Marchioness nodded in agreement. She reached up and touched one of the metal knobs on her former paramour's face and shuddered. "Do they hurt?"

"They did, but not anymore. Cyberans drilled them in as a form of torture, I think, though most of the adults I saw there had these. It's… odd."

"What will you do when you're not advising?" she asked. The man sitting next to her shrugged in jest.

"I hear you may be in need of a child's tutor soon, and you know for a fact there's more to me than soldiering." He hugged her as she flung her arms around him and cried into his chest. "You're happy, Clara, and that's what I wanted to see upon my return home, whether that happiness was with me or someone else." Tugging at her shoulders, he held her at arm's length. "You don't look very much like you're with child."

"I almost need to start wearing looser dresses and abandon my corset for the time being," she laughed, wiping the tears from her eyes. Her face grew melancholy as she was flung back into a memory, one tender and private and that only her former suitor shared. "You know, I may not have been very good at staying by your side, but I always have loved you."

"Then I say we should keep on loving one another," he suggested cautiously, "just a bit differently for the sake of your lord husband. We don't want him getting jealous now." He could see the Marquis glance up from the letter out of the corner of his eye, only to look back and keep on writing.

"That sounds like a wonderful idea," she agreed. She took the metal cuff off her wrist and gently placed it on his, leaning up afterwards to leave a kiss upon his brow. "I'm glad you've returned."

"Yeah. I am too."

* * *

The ceremony in which the Marchioness was created Doctor was a grand affair indeed, one that was recorded as a landmark in history. She was given an emerald-tipped scepter to match her husband's—alabaster, onyx, silver, and gold—as she recited the vows to protect and serve the people of Kasterborous and Gallifrey in the stead of the deposed chiefs and abolished kings as he had decades earlier. Those in attendance would later recount how she seemed to stand taller and more powerful than she had ever been before, shoulders back and head held high and showing child. There were no longer two chairs for governance, but a singular wide one made to accommodate both Doctors at once. Gifts were brought by the guests to show their acceptance and respect for the Marchioness's new position, one that was unprecedented and a feat rarely achieved in the generations that followed.

Later that night, in the privacy of their quarters, the Marquis bent down on-knee and presented his own gift, Doctor to Doctor. It was a bouquet of flowers—purple tulips and pink carnations surrounded in delicate white baby's breath—that he had hand-selected from the castle glasshouse. While she was able to find the humor in his choice, the Doctor found her husband to be much more of a romantic than most other men she knew put together. She took him in a giggled frenzy, as they were each other's moon and stars, their sky of blood and blue, and now the march and the entire kingdom knew it.

Spring arrived and the Marchioness gave birth to a daughter, near six years to the day her parents wed. It seemed only fitting, the people thought, that she became the eldest of six, four girls and two boys, each child becoming the pride of the March of Kasterborous and the City of Gallifrey. As they grew they became fixtures around their parents, their tutor, and their grandfather on his visits. Whilst the eldest was groomed and trained to become the Thirteenth Doctor, her siblings became scholars, commanders, and her youngest brother even succeeded their grandfather as Viscount of Blackpoole. They took the surname Smith to blend in with the people and soon the Smiths of Gallifrey and Blackpoole were well-regarded throughout the kingdom as, though kind and gentle, fearless and bold and forces to reckon with.

Their parents, however, remained mainly in Kasterborous until they faded much like the flowers that decorated the Marchioness's chambers. Their love indeed became legend and example for their children, grandchildren, and all those who came after. To have a Doctor's Love, it soon became known, was to be swept up in romance, both parties hopelessly and enduringly loyal to the other despite even the oddest match unlikely from the start. On the breath of elders and youth alike they endured, remaining as long as one found love within the kingdom forevermore.

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to look out for the sequel, Stars in A Sky of Blood and Blue!


End file.
